Feathers
by jquery
Summary: "There were feathers in the bathroom. Big, beautiful, glossy feathers, the kind you might find on a summer’s day in the country and which, when brought home, turn gradually into patchy, dusty feathers that smell musty and dank."


_Disclaimer thingy: I don't own Aziraphale or Crowley, nor do I own David Bowie, the Ramones, Puccini, La Boheme or Pablo Neruda. I do own Angie and Mittens, for what they're worth, though I'd happily trade them for any of the previous. And I've got four dollars sixty in my purse, which I own, but should probably spend on inky pens._

Though it bears absolutely no bearing on the story, I feel compelled to add that I was listening almost exclusively to Sarah McLachlan when I wrote this, namely Possession (the acoustic version), Sweet Surrender and Angel. I don't own her or any of those either. 

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**Feathers**

She had to face facts. He was gone.

It was painfully obvious. Nothing so crude as an empty wardrobe; he had never used the wardrobe anyway. But there were other signs. For one thing, the ferns looked ... happy. Relaxed, even. She prodded one with an accusatory finger; how dare it be _happy_ he was gone? She stripped a few of its fronds out of spite.

The watercolour, the two of them sprawled over each other on the couch, was conspicuous by its absence.

She checked her music. All the David Bowie was missing. And the Ramones. And, mysteriously, _La Boheme_. She hoped he wasn't going to play that in the car.

The Bentley was, of course, not downstairs. He had thoughtfully healed the scars in the lawn where he'd parked it. Pity about Mrs Johnson's violets, really. They looked quite pathetic, next to the pristine lawn.

She did find traces of him. The fridge was still stocked with hideously expensive food. She guessed it would start to turn in the next few days, and consoled herself with salmon and truffles. She resolved to make herself quite sick with it over the course of the evening.

There were feathers in the bathroom. Big, beautiful, glossy feathers, the kind you might find on a summer's day in the country and which, when brought home, turn gradually into patchy, dusty feathers that smell musty and dank. She gathered them up and wasn't surprised they numbered somewhere around exactly thirteen.

She tucked one into her hair and put the others carefully away.

He _was_ gone.

Oddly enough, so was the cat.

There was a gentle knock at the front door. She opened it and wasn't surprised at all.

"Angie, dear, I'm so sorry," he said, radiating compassion and regret.

"Come in," she sighed. "There's some Moet in the kitchen. Might as well take advantage of it while it lasts."

He came in. He winced when he saw the space where the watercolour had been. "I did warn you this would happen," he said softly.

She took his coat. "I know, dearheart. All bad things come to an end, I suppose."

He gave her a sharp look, which he tried to turn into a soft one. "Bad, dear? I thought you two were happy."

"I was," she said frankly, pouring two glasses of champagne. "He obviously wasn't."

"Now, that's not it at all," he protested, as they sat on the couch.

"Oh? Then I just got too old for him? Funny, he keeps the Bentley in such good condition. He could probably have done the same for me."

Her guest winced. "You know it doesn't work like that," he said, with a touch of reproach.

"Yes. And I knew this would happen one day. And I know it's nothing personal. Which is rotten, because with the amount of personal that was going on between us, I'd like to think it _was _personal. I _want _it to be personal. Why isn't it personal?"

"Because he is what he is," he told her wearily. "He doesn't allow himself to become attached to people."

"Unlike things, which he can become _very_ attached to. Do you know what he took? My Puccini. And Mittens, who I have a feeling he likes purely because she never liked him. Perceptive, he called her. Right before he threatened to put her under a bus for eating the ferns."

"Oh, I'm sure he'd never," he started, and trailed off under the force of her complete lack of being convinced. They both knew the 'he' in question would quite happily put a cat under a bus. "I'm sure she'll be fine. She's, er, fairly robust. And I'm far more worried about _you_, dear. How are you?"

"Coping," she lied. "It's taking a while to sink in. By tomorrow I'll realise he's gone forever and turn into a snivelling wreck. If you'd like to visit then, bearing gifts of icecream and fudge, be my guest."

They sipped their drinks in reverent silence.

"Bugger. I promised myself I wouldn't ask." She moodily refilled their glasses.

"No, I'm sorry, dear. I haven't got a clue where he is."

She shrugged. "Oh well."

"Maybe he'll come back, one day," he said, though they both knew it was about as likely as the Morningstar ice-skating to work.

"Yeah, only he'll have lost track of time and my bones will be half dust."

He didn't say anything to that. There was nothing to say.

"He called me Angel, you know," she sighed. "Sometimes I got the feeling he was really talking to someone else."

"Oh?" 

She eyed him carefully. He didn't look even the slightest bit embarrassed or evasive, so she let it go. "He was never really here. Even when he was, you know, completely here, he wasn't. I'm going to miss how completely here he could be. Without actually being here in a mental sense."

He nodded, smiled, sipped his champagne.

"You're just like him, you know," she observed over the rim of her glass.

"I hardly think so," he protested.

"No, you are. Both of you do that thing where you say something which could be meaningful, but isn't. You know, the trick of saying something without actually saying anything."

"If you say so, dear."

The silence swirled around them. It was a comfortable sort of silence; they had sat together like this before over an open bottle. She realised that she was expecting _him_ to slouch through the doorway in a cloud of drunken depression or gleaming with latent wickedness, to collapse on the couch and regale the two of them with his latest triumphs and failures.

She shook her head. "He's never coming back," she said softly.

"I can take it away," he said, in a tone so light and quiet the words could easily have been mistaken for 'I love you'.

She gave him a long look. "And what? Replace it? Leave a gaping hole in my memory? Or just make me not care that he's gone?"

"I can take all of it," he said in the same quiet tone that left her breathless with its simplicity. "It would be like going to sleep, and when you woke up you wouldn't remember anything except a dream of ... whatever you like best."

"But whatever I like best just happens to be him," she pointed out with a weak smile.

"Well, a dream of him, then."

She gazed moodily into her glass, watching the bubbles bulge and break. "And what about you? Would I remember you?"

He was quiet for a moment. "It would be best," he said delicately, "if you didn't."

"Why? So you can disappear out of my life too? You filled up nearly five years worth of friends between the two of you, I'd feel like some sort of social reject if it all disappeared at once." She shook her head. "No, if you're going to do it, Angel, do it properly. Play the devoted friend for a little while longer before you vanish." She smiled. "If nothing else, you pretty the place up."

He coloured, ever so faintly. "You'll fixate," he said, trying to be stern and failing miserably. "You know you will."

"On you?" She chuckled. "No offence, dearheart, but you're hardly black enough for my taste. I think you're safe from me. And in any case, isn't that my choice to make?"

"Then you want me to?"

She sighed and lifted her drink. "To new beginnings." She downed it in one swig and set the glass on the table. "Do it before I change my mind."

* * * * *

"... and I should think so, after all the trouble he caused. 'Do you know what I went through to find a mint first edition Neruda?' I said. 'Latin Americans are notoriously lax in their librarianship, and given the circumstances ...' are you all right, dear? You look like you're somewhere else entirely." He peered at her, concern and vague annoyance flitting across his tired face in quick succession.

She blinked. "Sorry, what? I think I zoned."

He tutted. "Oh, I'm boring you, I knew it."

"No, really," she protested, "go on. You were trying to sell the Neruda. Then what happened?" As the comforting wash of his voice pooled around her, something scratched the back of her neck. She reached up to dislodge whatever was caught in her hair and drew out one long, glossy feather, which still smelled faintly of soap and bourbon.

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_ Not sure exactly what I was trying to achieve here, other than breaking my writer's block and thinking wistful thoughts about fallen angels._

The ending is rather weak, in my opinion, but I think I maintained character throughout, and there are a few juicy bits of phrasage I'm rather pleased with. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as is blatant praise, though I don't think I'll be getting much for this snippet. Do review, in any case.

~Jing 


End file.
